


Odder Ends

by John the Alligator (anafabula)



Series: observe and report [2]
Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Cannibalism discourse, Drowning, M/M, Soft Horror, dental horror, implied tooth extraction, soft GAY horror, subtle power imbalance bad feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-28
Updated: 2013-07-28
Packaged: 2019-06-17 12:19:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15461226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anafabula/pseuds/John%20the%20Alligator
Summary: The unfinished chunks of what would’ve been more [observe and report].





	1. hot and cold, like a rheostat // TEETH

**Author's Note:**

> I fell out of the fandom for reasons involving false DMCA claims by the creators (and my taste trending darker than the canon, bless it, does), but I’m doing some cleaning and I do still like this prose.
> 
> Yell at me if there are tags missing, please.

"Listeners, before we move on to the next segment--do you ever really think about teeth? About your own teeth, if you have teeth? Our teeth are such important parts of our bodies, ones we use every day, but while they visibly protrude from our skin, many of us will never really get a look at them. Isn't that strange? We've all seen our baby teeth, of course, or, at least, those of us who develop and shed deciduous teeth do, but even with that point of comparison I recently had an occasion for shock. Your teeth are much longer than you would expect, dear listener, assuming you have teeth. They poke out of your gums like the hand of a corpse in a shallow grave rises above the topsoil, but pulled out, one of your molars is approximately as long as a penny, and most of you will never, ever know this first-hand. Isn't that strange, when you really think about it?"

Cecil bites his lips. That was probably too much, wasn't it.

"I'll leave it to you to think over what that might indicate about the depth of ignorance we have regarding things far less benign, whether these things are inside or outside our bodies, or lodged somewhere in between. Can this ignorance harm us? Conversely, what if it protects us from the world outside ourselves? And now, today's special feature." He flips on three hours of inconsolable shrieking and wailing with intermittent plaintive moans, and leaves for dinner.

#

He has a three-hour pause in his duties, now, a little intake of breath before he goes home, signs off for the night, and heads off to his apartment. Cecil can afford to meander a bit. Night Vale stretches out before him, over the gently, near-invisibly curving surface of the Earth. The planet hurls through empty space in an exact orbit, same as last year, same as next year, Carlos told him--over dinner, on Friday--like it knows where to go. The sky is cloudless, moonless, and, pending recent lawsuits, bereft of stars. On that scale, Cecil's own existence is infinitely unimportant, utterly meaningless. It's six-thirty in the evening, and Night Vale is beautiful.

He stops by Mission Grove Park on the way, despite the fact that it is, as a matter of fact, utterly out of his way. The cloudless sky means that any heat the ground had soaked up from the winter sun is leaching easily back into the night, so the dusty air is both cold and dry, a bad combination for the voice. The night temperature swings lately have been a good two octaves, with cello for the forseeable future, and Cecil forgot his jacket at the station; he makes for the pyre.

The eternal animal pyre just hasn't been the same since the Glow Cloud left. With that daily influx of dead animals it was enormous, and even though the corpses had looked normal going in, the flames that fed on them made a flickering rainbow that reached up to the dizzying void called the sky, the coloured fire an echo of the Glow Cloud itself. People who never usually would risk going out at night crowded around for the spectacle, sometimes a bit too close; Anita Kincaid, in particular, came away with third-degree burns and a week of intermittent clairvoyance, which upset her family terribly.

The fire's back to yellow and orange now, though, as it has been for months, as it was for months before that. Its audience is a scarce few dozen people, and three hooded figures Cecil studiously does not notice, over by the trees. The now-monochromatic light from the pyre sketches their edges, so the silhouettes wearing the particular angles of people in coats trying not to be noticed--all hunched shoulders, elbows, eyes blinking out into their foreground--are given depth by the gold light off their collars and buttons, eyes and hair. 

Cecil does not observe the hooded figures, and cannot speak to the way the fire does or does not glint off the edges of their hoods, or off the blank shadow inside.

The cold's still dug into the thin skin at his fingertips, despite the warmer air. It skims over his knuckles and wanders up his sleeves, even though he always rolls them down to go out. When he shoves his hands in his pockets he almost doesn't realise what his fingers hit. Something--two things--

Oh, wow. So he did carry them with him. It's been such a long day, even when he was oversharing on the radio he'd almost forgot--it didn't seem real, even three days later, that Friday night actually happened. It still doesn't. For all that he thinks Carlos' face looking up at him, the trust there, will never leave him, 

Cecil smiles, and feels the light shine off his teeth for a moment. Then he remembers, and keeps his mouth shut.

The smoke from the pyre, the mixed smell of just-singeing fur from new carcasses, burning meat and bubbling fat from the ones delivered earlier today, and mild, clean charring bones, has reminded him that he did in fact go out for a reason.   
#[goes off walking] [people part as he walks by, organically] [USE THE WORD LODESTONE] [dark but it could be darker]

#

Far be it from Cecil to ever, ever criticize the City Council's judgement, but the rules about the weekly pizza slice requirement, in his experience, are vague. He might even go so far as to call them poorly-implemented--no. No, he wouldn't. "Inconsistent" is a better word; is the requirement per calendar week, or every seven days? He's seen people taken down for fines or mandatory blood donation--and that's a litre and a half for repeat offenders--for non-compliance, but not with any apparent pattern. Not respecting the laws of Night Vale, however arbitrary or senseless they may or may not be, should obviously be punished, but...

He wonders if Carlos' missing time impacts the calendar at all.

For that matter, before the ban on wheat and wheat by-products, what were gluten-intolerant citizens supposed to do? If the brief shutdown from the wheat and wheat by-products bust caused someone to miss a day, whose fault was that? He could bring this up tomorrow, he thinks. Questioning a sponsor could go badly, has gone badly before, went badly just last week, but it's for the public good, and isn't that what the radio's for?

Well. No, not really. The radio is for Council-approved news and cultural enrichment content, and Cecil's Station Management-approved editorializing, as he's recently been reminded. Right now, it's for screaming. Cecil's somewhat gratified to hear that when he finally walks into Big Rico's Pizza that they're tuned into the three-hour special; the teenager who takes his order is nodding in time to the ululating shriek that makes up the closest there seems to be to a chorus. "HELLO, MY NAME IS Kim", her lapel announces, and "(she/her)", in relatively neat, browning ink. When she glances at him, Kim flinches, then looks back down, and her Council law-compliant Invisible Morse is painstaking. She must be new.

 

#[smiling] 

#[gets his order wrong]

#[tradition] [considers doing a segment on tradition] [would carlos think that is tmi. hm. what a completely alien way to look at it--one of the many reasons he loves him! incomprehensible and unpredictable! no i'm not projecting--of course the radio comes first. youth of today. etc. that's the whole reason i introduced kim.]

#[hooded figure walks in. christ kim is having an awful day] 

#[trust!!] [sympathetic magic!] [power imbalances he doesn't realise are wrong]

#[intermission] [no HERE smiling] [heads home]

#[faint tug, reassuring, like the breath of someone lying beside you who didn't die in the night]

Cecil can't return the favor, but he doesn't need to. Not really. Carlos can find him at any time: he's on the radio.

#

"Welcome back, listeners. That was the second track off local a cappella group Literal EP's new literal extended play, To All Eternal Scouts. They sent me a sample copy a couple weeks ago, and while it wouldn't suit the weather, for obvious reasons, I still wanted to share it with you. You can get all eight discs for a mere six dollars, just go out back of the community college on a Wednesday and scream until your throat bleeds. Isn't that a bargain? And you'll be supporting Night Vale's budding musical talents, too. 

"Now, in the news: There is none. Nothing is new. There are around seven billion people in the world--this approximation does not, of course, include the secret, the nonexistent, or the inhabitants of any and all covert colonies on the moon--and for all we know, that's all there is in the entire universe. You are one of them. You are one of them. Your existence is improbable, remarkable, and completely individual. But you are also only a tiny part of the human present, and a tinier part of human history. 

"Meanwhile, no new matter can be created, only recycled at a loss, and energy only ever dissipates. Though we live in a desert, maybe it's still easier to believe in the eventual absence of warmth and light now. It gets awfully chilly as soon as the sun goes down this time of year, and in the future, someday, the sun will go out. All suns will go out, and they will know nothing of us.

"I was thinking about this, you see, while out on a walk earlier. With the unusual luxury of a wide time limit and nowhere to be, I was able to simply wander around Night Vale, and I feel I am the better for it. The world experiences a net gain of seven people every three seconds, did you know that? When I got back to the station I looked it up. 'There's one born every minute' is inaccurate! There's actually a hundred and forty, or maybe more, depending on the minute. Thirteen of them are right here in the United States. And every one of these people, like every one of you, will have to trace a path for themselves through this world. Every one of these soft, helpless, almost shapeless newborn human beings--the US government, unfortunately, does not publicise statistics for non-human beings--is exactly like you, in that you are unimaginably outnumbered by the amount of all the people who aren't you and will never be you.

"It may be comforting to think of the statistical likelihood that nothing you do will matter to temporary, subjective human history, let alone the implacable reality of the uncaring universe. It may be liberating for you, dear listener, to think that in the endless field of everything you aren't which you travel through, there are no roads and no signposts. But in the absence of any objective proof of how to direct your own existence, I suggest the most fleeting and illusory kind of landmark of all. I suggest you rely on other people. No matter how alone you are, no matter how misanthropic or reviled, there is someone who you affect deeply. There are many people. You may not know who they are; you may never know who they are. But in a universe that does not care for you and that would not be substantively changed were you not to exist, they know you're here.

"And remember, however you plot this course through the world, don't let it bring you down by the Night Vale Harbor and Waterfront Recreation Area for the foreseeable future. Despite the Night Vale Harbor and Waterfront Recreation Area never having existed and thus never having been a massive flop, the area of the scrublands that the waterfront would have overlooked, had it existed, is currently infested with flying sharks. They move through the air, say eyewitnesses, with no apparent difficulty, as though the dry desert wastes are covered in water. Perhaps, once upon a time, they were.

"Even sharks aren't as frightening as they might seem. When placed upside-down, they fall asleep. Much like the station cat, or a harmless dog, they enjoy having their bellies rubbed, though I can't speak to the non-mammalian texture. Sharks dislike the taste of human blood, due to its high iron content, and they bite only out of curiosity. But maybe stay away from the waterfront anyway.

"Take care of your loved ones. Take care of your teeth. You need both of them, in ways that haven't even occurred to you yet. Good night, Night Vale. Good night."


	2. scream hell toward heaven’s door // COMMUNITY CANNIBALISM WEEK

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Episode fic. Unfinished.

Without legs, the snake moves. It crawls. Some snakes swim. Some snakes fly. 

Welcome to Night Vale.

\--

[community cannibalism week. be funny-earnest, play up sustainability, veto by people caring about you (dot day style!) "Remember, Night Vale, the people you can save are limited, today and always. Choose wisely." resources and population. night vale survives by rapid replenishment; it spreads, like malaria, but it's far too clever to burn itself out, like malaria.]

\--

[surge of people getting blood in the mail; what to do if you get blood in the mail. town meeting about the blood in the mail, which, since it has nothing to do with the dog park, the hooded figures, the eternal spring behind big rico's, etc., is safe to discuss. send an intern. carlos volunteers to test the blood in the mail! what a lovely thing to do!]

\--

[community calendar]

\--

[all stop signs are being repainted; please drive accordingly and avert your eyes. people with stop sign immunity, that will make it easier]

\--

[cannibalism update, proceeding fine]

\--

[weather: Lucifer Rising]

\--

At the moment I am, of course, safely confined to the station until further notice. But now, a look outside. 

Imagine the ocean. Imagine being far enough out to sea that all you can see around you is blue and almost entirely flat. Your body bobs gently up and down with the moving peaks in the water that, in a hundred miles, will crash into empty space and be waves. One will be the first of a tsunami, and those after it will follow, but that is far away. The bright treble of waves on the beach has subsided into a dull roar. But this sound is all around you; it fills your ears and, once given the opportunity, your mouth and nose. You cannot see the shore, and you are drowning.

And yet your arms don't wave, your legs manage only lazy circling kicks to keep your eyes above water. It seems unforgivable to do anything more, to disturb the peace in this piece of a calm cycle much larger than you or anyone else. The sky is bright and cloudless, and there is no one who you could hope will see you.

In a little while, it will rain.

This has been traffic.

\--

[update: stop signs are being painted chartreuse, failure to adjust will be compensated for with free reeducation!]

\--

I've just been informed that we've recieved a complaint about the traffic. Not a citizen's report about the traffic at the moment--which would be perfectly understandable given the current conditions under which cars are existing within city limits and, for that matter, elsewhere--but no. We've recieved a single complaint about the traffic information we chose to present today and how. This letter, which is unsigned, objects to the traffic, given that Night Vale is almost three hundred miles of desert from the closest shore. 

While I don't know who sent this letter, to be completely honest, listeners, I can only suspect one person. There is only one person who comes to mind who would disregard our duty here on the radio to keep you informed. Informed not only of changes in the community, but of the wider relevance of the day-to-day progression of life in time and heartless, empty space. 

Does the single person drowning far from any sign of land mean nothing to you and your not fifteen- but twenty-eight-minute drive to work today? Of course it doesn't. But nor does your drive to work, or your work, or your eventual and lonely death, have any wider inherent meaning. The meaning of things is only given by their relationship to each other, and this includes your life and everything in it. 

But on a long enough timeline, can't any lines of subjective meaning converge? Maybe hearing today's traffic would only inform your actions for a moment, but maybe--

Listeners, I must leave you. I--something has come up. Please excuse me for a moment. Meanwhile, enjoy this message from our sponsors.

\--

I Can't Believe It's Not Butter: Looks like butter. Spreads... like butter. Almost tastes like butter, but not quite. Not quite. 

If I turn quickly enough, out of the corner of my eye I can see this "butter" for what it really is. I Can't Believe It's Not Butter. They won't let me.

This message brought to you by the merciful I Can't Believe It's Not Butter. Spreadable. Edible. Safe. Now reformulated to include real ingredients!

\--

[interruption: carlos! and cecil is not only terrified and angry and stuck inside, he is affronted.]

 

He may be an outsider, but he is our outsider!

\--

 

But all that said, tomorrow 

Good night, Night Vale. Good night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That’s all, folks.


End file.
